


cut our teeth

by verulam (krynon)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Junkrat is a Flagrant Homosexual, M/M, So is Roadhog but in a very different way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10080890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/verulam
Summary: They fight together. It's pretty hot, if Junkrat doesn't say so himself."He’s a sucker for affection, and who could blame him? He’s got his midriff and most of his arse on show, legs crossed up on the chair in a way that Roadhog would get an eyeful of thigh if he had to lean down for anything. ‘Sides, asking bears about his impossibly gay crop-tops usually scratched the itch of finding out if they’d actually get on or not. Some guys just didn’t know how to roll with it."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Short fic pulled out of my endless pile of WIPS. If all goes well, there'll be a second chapter! Unbeta'd, do let me know if you spot anything off.

“Well hello there,” Junkrat says. Roadhog looked bigger in real life than he had in pictures, whole body bulging with muscle and fat, and Junkrat?

Junkrat had a thing for big.

“Hi,” says Roadhog. And there’s another check mark on his list: guy had a deep voice. He’s a sucker for bears everywhere, it had to be said, but some guys really hit the spot. Like the biker standing in front of him for example. He’s also wearing a little cloth mask over his face, which only added to the mystery, really.

Roadhog, he’s pleased to notice, is unabashedly checking him out. His midriff’s on show, crop-top basically plastered to his torso. It said “Twink Club” in big pink letters, and was fairly representative of every other item of clothing he wore. Or owned, even.

“So!” says Junkrat, taking a seat at the booth. Roadhog sits down too, and Junkrat giggles as their knees hit eachother’s underneath the table. “Name’s Junkrat! Jamison Fawkes, at your service!”

“Roadhog,” he offers, leaning heavily on the table with both arms. “Mako Rutledge, ‘f you prefer.”

“Good t’meet you, Roadhog! Now, now the introductions over with, tell me: what do you think of my shirt?”

He’s a sucker for affection, and who could blame him? He’s got his midriff and most of his arse on show, legs crossed up on the chair in a way that Roadhog would get an eyeful of thigh if he had to lean down for anything. ‘Sides, asking bears about his impossibly gay crop-tops usually scratched the itch of finding out if they’d actually get on or not. Some guys just didn’t know how to roll with it.

“I like it,” says Roadhog. His eyes crinkle up above his mask, like he’s smiling. “What d’you think of mine?”

He’s not wearing a shirt, just a tiny jacket that barely covers him.

“I like it a lot,” says Junkrat. “Suits you, mate, you’ve got some smashing equipment.”

Roadhog laughs, and Junkrat grins brightly. This was going swimmingly. 

And it goes from there.

“So, Roadie... can I call you Roadie?” Junkrat says.

Roadhog stares at him.

“So Roadie,” he says again, more forcefully this time. Junkrat knew the type, strong and silent. “Tell me about yourself!”

Roadie eyes him closely, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a biker.”

Junkrat waits for an exposition that doesn’t come. “Good!” he says. “That’s- a start! Definitely a start, a good one. I build things, myself, mostly for th’ pleasure o’ blowin’ stuff up afterwards!” His voice has a frantic edge to it even he can recognise.

***

The first time they get drunk together is a good time.

They go to a bar, Junkrat chats and Roadhog listens. They have a few drinks.

“‘Nnn…. I was talking to D.Va, Right??? You don’t know her.... She’s!” Junkrat grins, giggles a bit. “She’s a good mate, An’…. she was tellin’ me, right, that it’s okay to love stuff! It’s like- Roadie-”

Roadie has not drunk nearly enough yet, because although he’s swaying slightly in his seat, he’s definitely not as fucked as Junkrat was. Junkrat’s barely upright, slouched over his chair and gesticulating wildly. 

“See, I’d always been- you know, right, I have a good fuckin’ time, righ’? Love a good time-”

And there’s another thing about Junkrat and Roadhog. They attract fights. Like flies to honey, fights trailed their steps. 

A guy walks past, just by chance, and Junkrat, just by chance, swings an arm out. 

“And y’see, Roadie, I just- I love blowing things up! I fuckin’ love it! I had a little chemistry set as a kid and I fuckin’ love that shit!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, suddenly, sending him off balance and onto the floor. “Ow, fuck!”

There’s a guy above him, and it’s not Roadhog. It’s a few guys, leather-jacket wearing, sunglasses at midnight wearing, bulky men.

The guy sticks his arms out and makes an angry noise. “What the fuck you think you’re doing man?”

Junkrat blinks. “What?”

“You,” says the guy, leaning in and jabbing a finger onto his chest. “You hit my friend.”

The guy’s drunk.

So is Junkrat.

With that, he pulls himself up, step after teetering step, to his full height. 

He towers over everyone else, suddenly. They weren’t particularly tall either. Barely came up to his shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” He slurs, tilting from side to side. His peg-leg nearly slips on the floor, and he reels forward and back in a quick motion that makes the guy in front of him jump. He giggles. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

So Junkrat, in one of those few and precious times in his life, is not the first one to throw a punch. The guy reels back, shoves his fist forward, and-

Junkrat catches it on one swoop, gripping hard at the fleshy hand with his metal arm.

“I wouldn’ do tha’ if I were you,” he slurs. He’s stronger than these guys by miles. He blinks as Guy #1 tries to pull his fist back, and fails miserably, giggling again at the shock on the crowd’s faces.

“Hey, hey!” Junkrat says, releasing the fist and dodging sloppily as another bloke tries to deck him. “I aint g’nna hurt ya!” 

***

He goes to bars, fights people with Roadhog in tow, maybe ends up with a few vendettas, maybe gets them a reputation, maybe gets through most of the city’s tough guys in under a month.

And it’s not like they always win, either. It’s that it’s genuinely enough fun that although Junkrat somehow ends up with even less hair than he had before (the stuff grows back though, so who really cared anyway), it’s worth it. So fucking worth it. 

And besides, Roadhog rarely lost a fight. And Roadhog tended to do his best to protect Junkrat, which was convenient, because by fuck could Junkrat starts fights.

“Oi, c’mere you bald-headed prick,” The guy at the bar’s a skinhead; makes Junkrat and every thoroughly gay nerve in his body wince. 

Behind him, Roadhog sighs. Which was a cop-out frankly, because Junkrat knows he’s into it, seen the guy get a stiffy for a well-thrown punch. A heavy hand is placed very deliberately onto his shoulder, and said Bald-Headed Prick moves through the crowd towards them.

Slowly, very slowly, an entire gang of the fucks emerge from the mass, one after the other, like a cartoon where everyone’s face is held in shadow for dramatic effect. To be fair, he thinks, as he shuffles his shoulders back to show off his muscles and height, that was probably because he needed glasses and had just never bothered to get them.

He scratches at his face. Wasn’t like good glasses were cheap, anyway. Who gave a shit about a pair of glasses that’d get smashed to bits the first time he went out with the Hog, anyway? Not him, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

“Holy dooley, there’s a lot of you cunts, huh!”

Eight of them in total, he’d say, which wasn’t necessarily very accurate because of the whole glasses thing.

“What the fuck d’you want, y’aussie prick?” says Skinhead number 1, and Junkrat is (as always) delighted to watch the guy realise Junkrat and Roadhog’s collective height.

Junkrat takes a quick glance up at Roadhog, then back down at the skinhead.

“Wanna fight?”

It’s one of the more polite openers he’s got, from the carefully collated list in his head that ranges from expletive heaven to run-of-the-mill. The guy barely has time to smile before Junkrat is driving his fist, hard, into that smirking mouth.

Junkrat and skinheads didn’t get on. Roadhog hated them too, but right now it was Junkrat’s fist forcing it’s way into his jaw. That’s what counts, really, the adrenaline of harming someone that was genuinely fucking shitty.

“Fuck!” yells someone at the back of the bar, voice creaking and crunching almost in time with the snap of the guy’s jaw as he slams his teeth together, reeling and rubbing at his face.

“Shit,” he says, and Junkrat takes that as an invitation to go at him with the metal prosthetic, arms swinging and body forcing away from Roadhog’s steadying hand. 

There’s a crash as someone tries to collide with Roadhog behind him, a snarling shout from someone behind Skinhead Number 1, and a fierce crack as a fist collides with the side of his jaw. It’s a pain like a bite, spitting up into his nerves and shaking him from the core up, and he smiles, because the adrenaline of this, fucking hell, s’gotta be one of the best things on earth-

A kick lands in his gut just before his metal fist can connect with the fucker that punched him, and he’s sent careering back into Roadhog’s side. Roadhog’s busy, punching for himself, big guy’s wearing knuckle-dusters too; guy was dangerous, and it was always good to remember that-

Some utter wankjob attempts to stamp on his foot, only to meet with the edge of his pegleg, and as they go down, Junkrat thwacks him in the face.

Good shit, really, getting out aggression this way. They’d gone to a place racists and homophobes were known for hanging around, and it was always nice to do the public a service.

Pretty soon they’re back to back, Junkrat and Roadhog, working in tandem with limbs flailing and arms pumping violently, braced together, punch and punch and punch and-

He wakes up abruptly. He’s slumped against a chair.

The bar is empty, and Roadhog is stood in the doorway.

“Y’alright?” he asks, big feet stomping across the room.

Junkrat takes stock. His head hurts, thrumming with an ache, and his stomach felt stretched and bruised. His leg, too, is aching like a bitch, muscles sore. “Ow,” Junkrat responds. 

Roadhog grunts out a laugh. “Fair.”

There’s a pause, then, where Junkrat wrestles himself to a stand, teetering a little on unsteady footing. His pegleg was always difficult to navigate when he was… was he concussed? Everything was blurry, distant, but then again that could have been the glasses thing again.

“So,” he says brightly. “Wanna go and get milkshakes?”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here !](http://verulamfic.tumblr.com)
> 
> (p.s im queer and transmasculine but i am not Very Aware of my own subculture so if ive misused any term here please let me know)


End file.
